


Why Sherlock Holmes Said 'Necrophilia' at Four in the Morning

by mousewriter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre and Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 18:28:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mousewriter/pseuds/mousewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is dead. John goes back to 221B for some of his things. There's someone in Sherlock's closet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why Sherlock Holmes Said 'Necrophilia' at Four in the Morning

**Author's Note:**

> i swear, i wanted this to be all angst. it got away from me. i love it anyway. fluff!  
> i can't think of a better title. it works for now, but suggestions?

John had been staying at his sister’s. He couldn’t go back to his—Sherlock’s?—flat yet. Harry was in the bathroom, taking a cautious swig from a hidden bottle of refuge. John’s pain had reawakened hers. Two months sober isn’t much, but it is everything. John is guilty. By extension, so is Sherlock.

Sherlock. Blood spilt from his head across the pavement. Eyes blown open by force, pale irises alight with residual life, fading. Carted off before John could see the light disappear. John could still feel the pulse on his fingers, the one solitary thump of a beating heart. One beat. Death. A reflex, a post mortem try at life again. The last heartbeat of the world’s only consulting detective, and John was there to feel it.

John still hasn’t officially moved out of Baker Street. He keeps up the pretense of living there for Mrs. Hudson benefit. She’s all alone. He has clothes here at his sisters, toothbrush, computer, necessities. Just not Sherlock.

His computer beeps from the coffee table. Battery low. John looks around for his charging cable. It’s back at 221B.

John could go now. He isn’t busy. But does he really need his computer? He needed it when Sherlock was alive, to blog about cases, to research people and places for Sherlock’s unrelenting need for data. What had he used his computer for before he met Sherlock?

John sighed, he could go now. Break his lethargy. Keep up the pretense.

Sometimes he catches himself limping. He forces _psychosomatic_ into his inner monologue and ignores the imagined pain. Shortly after moving in with Sherlock, his cane had disappeared. John is glad to not have a crutch to fall back on—given a cane, he would use it, limp everywhere, and be miserable.

He did not limp to 221B. He took a cab. Thirty quid.

John has a key, but hesitates before using it. This is his home, but he feels like he should knock. An outsider at his own residence. Home is not home without a madman detective leaving body parts in the fridge. Coaxing melodies from strings and horsehair. Hands framing a steeple under chin, thinking.

John is acting stupid and he tells himself that. He walks in like he belongs there, because he _does_ belong there.

Mrs. Hudson is out.

The wallpaper is familiar. The chair— _his_ chair—is still right where it has always been, opposite its modern black counterpart. The kitchen is clean, it looks alien. The sitting room is straightened up, the clutter of papers and boxes of whatever have been stacked and set atop the desk between the windows. There isn’t any dust. He should thank Mrs. Hudson somehow.

The charger is in his bedroom, wrapped up and set on the dresser. Thought of when packing but forgotten anyway. He grabs a few things. Clothes, his electric shaver. Just necessities. Personal items: his army fatigues, his favorite books, his coffee cup, his gun—they’re all left behind. Maybe he’ll pick them up some other time.

Something is missing from the sitting room. The violin. It had been here the last time John was, but he couldn’t remember where in the flat it had been. Sherlock’s bedroom maybe?

His curiosity got the better of him. It always got the better of him. Curiosity brought him to Sherlock. Curiosity killed the cat. Killed Sherlock.

The violin was on Sherlock’s pillow. The bow was under its neck, pointing at the door. The room was meticulously clean. The closet door was open. John thought he should shut it.

His fist tightened around the bag of his things. His back straightened, his shoulders went rigid. Turned on the spot and left.

John was descending the stairs when he heard a thump. He froze.

“Mrs. Hudson?” No answer.

He set his things at the foot of the stairs. The noise came from Sherlock’s room. _The closet door was open._ Cautious, he ascended back to the sitting room. His gun is still in the desk. Safety off, finger behind the trigger. Threaten possible intruder with presence of gun, move finger to trigger to make certain the intent to use, call police.

He moved down the hall with remembered stealth. Gun pointed at the floor. He hadn’t shut the bedroom door. Quick strides to the closet. Doors thrown open.

Between the suits and shirts and pants stood a man. The suits were tailored to his frame.

John took a large step backward. The heel of the gun hit the floor, the barrel following a half a second after. The two thumps of the falling gun were the only sounds in the room. Johns arms felt awkward, too loose at his sides. He was sure he looked absolutely mad his eyes were so wide. He wanted the gun back, for something to hold on to.

He managed a word. “… _Sherlock?”_

Sherlock moved out of the closet. And John knew that he was real.

****

_It was after Christmas, after Janette. John was in bed with a woman. Her name was Alice and she worked for a temp agency. They had dated for a week and now they were having sex. Alice was boring in bed. John supplied his libido with images of other women, picked up the tempo. They were beating out an awkward rhythm, a haphazard symphony. John was close to climax. He rode through his orgasm with a flash of exposed skin, a hand reaching out to grasp a falling sheet. Shoulder blades darting spasmodically as a man’s fingers grasped at the white cloth and hitched it around himself. A naked Sherlock Holmes in the grandeur of Buckingham Palace. John had cried out release to the image of the curve and flex of his flat mate’s naked torso._

****

They just stared. John was a steady unblinking gaze, eyes blown wide. Sherlock was sporadic in his brow and mouth, trying to form words, the _right_ words. His eyes traced the silhouette of John, darting to meet his eyes and instantly flashing away.

John thought he should be angry. He certainly looked it. But all he wanted to do was touch Sherlock, verify his existence. A finger to his chest? No. Kiss. That’s what he wanted. He just couldn’t do it.

****

_Irene had kissed Sherlock on the cheek. John felt fire in his gut. He always felt fire these days, when Sherlock was wrapped up in his complex attraction to Ms. Adler. The Woman. The infernal woman who insinuated that Sherlock and he were an item. Throwing it in his face that they weren’t. His fantasies had been claimed by Sherlock, he was sexually attracted to Sherlock. He had come to terms with that. And she was there to remind him that none of it—the imagined sex, the mutual release—had happened. Remind him that Sherlock had other desires—her. John could see why Sherlock was enamored with the enigma of Irene. He didn’t have to like it._

****

Sherlock’s panicked composure froze into a mask of indifference. John could see the expression he was hiding in his eyes. _Fear._ He strode past John, pausing for less than a second to place an awkward hand on John’s right shoulder. Hand withdrawn. Into the hall. Out the door. Away.

****

_He was drunk. Absolutely pissed. Plastered. Wasted. John was stumbling up the steps to 221B, ignoring Mrs. Hudson’s fluttery concern from the foyer. John was on a mission. Seduce Sherlock. Just drunk enough to make everything a good idea. “Oh Sheeeerrrlooccck!!!” he called out, playful, drunk off his ass. Must seduce Sherlock. He fell through the kitchen door, and Sherlock was there, asleep, slumped into his microscope. John knocked a heavy book to the floor. “SHERLOCK!”. Sherlock jolted awake. His head had been supported by his eyes on the lenses on the scope, and red imprints circled his eyes, making him look like a discolored panda. John burst out laughing, falling back to the doorjamb and sliding to the floor, clutching his gut in a fit of giggles. Sherlock just yawned and slouched over to the couch, collapsing there and resuming sleep. John passed out in the door._

****

Sherlock was gone. John thought that maybe he had hallucinated the whole thing. Sherlock was _dead._ He couldn’t have imagined Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder, could he?

****

_John replayed his last conversation with Sherlock for the second time that day. A day since Sherlock stepped from the ledge. John was not okay. How much he had wanted to be on the roof with Sherlock, hearing his words directly from him, not through a phone. To clearly see his mouth frame his goodbye, so that he could believe it. He still couldn’t comprehend that Sherlock was gone, but he had felt Sherlock’s blood die in his veins with his own fingers. He had proof of oblivion, but the preservation of the flat—the so very much Sherlock’s flat—was only reinforcing Sherlock’s existence. How could he be dead. Moriarty's body atop the same roof threw a wrench in any conclusions John tried to make. He felt like it was right in front of him. The why and the how were all dancing on the horizon, eluding him._

_“It’s a trick. It’s just a magic trick.”_

****

John didn’t leave. He migrated to the sitting room, tossing his things to the chair— _his_ chair—and curling in on himself on the couch. He didn’t know what to do.

****

_“I was so alone, and I owe you so much.” Johns hand was on Sherlock’s grave. His grave. Sherlock's death felt real now, the talisman of black marble a tangible piece of evidence. Sherlock was dead, and John hadn’t saved him._

_“Just one more thing, Sherlock, for me. Don’t…be…dead.” John left the rest of his words in his head (let me save you how could I not save you this is my fault)._

_Of course he blamed himself. Of course._

****

John never left 221B. Mrs. Hudson returned from wherever she had been, and found him still on the couch. So still he could have been sleeping, but he wasn’t.

“Alright dear?”

Her words roused him, but not much. “Sherlock” he said. This did not convey what he was thinking. (I saw Sherlock he’s alive). Mrs. Hudson understood, or she thought she did. Poor man’s gotten himself depressed by coming here.

“You should head back to your sisters, it’s getting late.”

John shook his head, “Not leaving,”

She was too happy to have him back that she didn’t protest. She made him tea that he did not drink. He slept on the couch.

****

_John had almost kissed Sherlock once. He wasn’t drunk. It was a conscious decision to lean in, and a conscious decision to stop himself. What if it ruined their friendship? John didn’t want to lose Sherlock, even if it meant keeping their relationship the same, platonic. But Sherlock had been lost all the same, fell to his death of his own hand. And John had thought: what if I’d given him a reason? Would he have jumped if he knew I was there to tether him to the earth? That I care?_

_That I love him?_

****

Three days. The couch was upsetting his back. John ignored his own bed upstairs and slept in Sherlock’s room. He had to move the violin, set it on the dresser. The violin. He made up his mind: Sherlock was alive.

He brought out his phone and thumbed through his contacts, composed a message.

_You need your violin._

****

_John stood over Sherlock’s grave for a long time. He had just visited yesterday with Mrs. Hudson, had asked Sherlock not to be dead. Choked back tears, let some drop. Composed himself and marched away. Why was he here again? Maybe he expected Sherlock to materialize in front of him, to not be dead, as John had asked. He sat on the plain side of the head stone—not on Sherlock’s body—and told a story._

_“Once, when I was eight, I saw Harry kissing a boy under the tree in our backyard. I told my mom about it, and Harry was mad. Especially when my parents decided that they should have the talk with her. She was twelve?... yeah twelve. I was eavesdropping on their talk, picked up some colorful language. Next day I was saying the funny words… god I’m still so immature, I can’t say them now and I’m alone!” John tried not to get caught up in how alone he was. He pushed on. “Penis. Vagina. There, I’m mature now.” He laughed, turned to peer around the marble, as if Sherlock was on the other side. Stopped himself, turned back, frowned. “Anyway, I was saying those words and giggling because I knew they had something to do with kissing and it was so weird to my eight year old self. Well, my mom overheard. So she had to give me the talk, too. Condensed version, not as graphic as the one Harry got. My mom kept talking about ‘when a boy and a girl’ and ‘only when the boy and the girl love each other’. And I thought, what about boys and boys or girls and girls? Because I had seen gay people and I wondered why she wasn’t talking about them, didn’t they count? So I asked her, and she looked terrified. I realize now that she thought I could be gay, and that scared her. You should have seen her when Harry came out—she came to terms with it, but in the beginning she was so heartbroken.” He paused for a moment, not sure why. “I’m the good child, I guess. Straight, non alcoholic. Here’s the thing though. One night, I was pissed drunk and you were asleep at the microscope and I… I was going to seduce you. But it was just so funny with your panda eyes…” John couldn’t laugh. “I don’t care if I’m gay, if I’m disappointing my parents. It doesn’t matter anyway, because the one bloke I’ve ever considered romantically is dead—“_

_And abruptly, John left._

****

John was asleep until the pressure of another body beside him roused him. Soldiers are light sleepers. There was a hand snaked across his chest, under his arm, hand curled lightly around the muscles in his shoulder. Cold face pressed into the warmth of his neck. Urge to attack quelled by the ‘intruders’ words.

“I didn’t come back for my violin.”

John could be angry. John could lash out, punch, and call him hurtful things, _true_ things. But he _was_ in Sherlock’s bed.

And he was in love with the bastard.

****

_SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS_

_Walking through London was like running through a gauntlet, and getting pierced by every blade._

****  
John made the conscious decision to not think. He turned under Sherlock’s arm and captured him in his own, grasping at his shoulder to pull him closer. Kiss him. Ruin their friendship, improve their relationship.

He started thinking again. (Sherlock is alive I’m snogging him he faked his death I should probably be angry sod this I’m just going to kiss him and kill him later oh god he’s actually kissing me back I did not expect that.)

Sherlock pushed them over, trapped John under him, gave irrefutable proof that he existed, that he was sorry, that he was so, so sorry.

****

_Running through London chasing killers. John could do anything in the heat of the moment, could push Sherlock against any passing brick wall and act out his passion. But there was a killer to catch. Maybe when the job was done, and John was still on an endorphin high, maybe then he could have his way with his flat mate against brick. John thought about this often._

****

The kissing dissolved into John just holding him. Sherlock holding back, tightly, but giving him space. Because John was supposed to be furious, and he was, he just couldn’t bring himself to let go. To look into Sherlock’s eyes. Would he see indifference there? (That would give him an excuse to yell: _how could you be so unfeeling about tearing my heart in half?)_ No, Sherlock had just kissed him. Too passionately to just be polite reciprocation. Sherlock was not indifferent.

John would see something in Sherlock’s eyes that he didn’t want to see, not yet. He didn’t want to see how much Sherlock was sorry, how much he cared. John didn’t want to be the exception to Sherlock’s emotional abstinence, not yet.

Because John was furious. Livid. Mad at him, mad _for_ him. He didn’t want to love him yet, he just wanted to be angry.

****

_“Brilliant.” John would say. Sherlock’s face would light up for the smallest, fleeting second, and then he would brush it off._

_“Obvious.” He would say._

_John collected those smiles in memory, and the smiles would tell John to JUST KISS HIM! But he wouldn’t. If a smile meant ‘kiss me’ Sherlock would be kissing John every other second. Because John was a besotted fool, smiling at his love like an idiot. And his love never knew._

****

John was making his intentions clear. Unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt. His crisp, white, infuriatingly posh silk shirt.

“I’m sorry, John.”

“Please, don’t.”

“But I am.”

“I know. Just… don’t.”

Sherlock was reciprocating, shoving his cold hands under John’s shirt, John hissing at the ice. Buttons were complicated, John gave up and ripped. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind—he had managed John’s shirt to the floor and was pushing down his pajama bottoms, John lifted his hips to assist. Sherlock was still inside of his head, asking questions.

“Do you want to know why I…?”

“Later.”

John closed his eyes, _later._

“Do you forgive me?”

“Later.”

****

_Sherlock was always so brilliant. John was fawning over him like an idiot. He really should be bothered by how rude Sherlock could be, but it was endearing. God, he was an idiot. He was in love with a genius, he loved that he was in love with a genius. It made him happy, and—if he was honest with himself—horny. He caught Lestrade raising an eyebrow at him. Everyone else’s attention was on Sherlock—prattling on about deductive reasoning—but Lestrade was staring at him, a bemused expression on his face. John took a few steps closer to him, “What?” he said._

_“Oh, just wondering when the wedding is for you two.”_

_John sputtered out a dismissal, a denial, but he wasn’t fooling anyone._

****

Belts are stupid. Why does Sherlock always have to be in a suit? Pants are excessive. Sherlock was still wearing his shoes.

“Seriously?” John asked, gesturing towards the shoe clad feet of Sherlock. He didn’t respond, just pushed them off with his toes. And socks.

The room was lit by moonlight, just enough to see Sherlock’s naked, pale body ghosting over John, dropping wet kisses to his neck and torso. He was just so _loving._ It infuriated John, happy as he was, _horny_ as he was, he was mad.

So he flipped them over, forcefully if he was honest with himself. Bruised Sherlock’s mouth with hot kisses, handling him a bit roughly. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind, but he asked anyway. “Are we having angry sex?”

“I am. You can do whatever you want.”

“That’s a bit rude.”

“Don’t care.” John reclaimed his mouth, shutting him up. Rutting against him. Sherlock made encouraging noises, soft, sweet, _loving_ noises. This only enraged John more. (You don’t get to love me now, not when I hate you.)

“Trying to have angry sex here.”

“Well I’m not stopping you.”

“You could be rough too, you know.”

“I can’t be rough.”

“Why not?”

“Because I lov—“

John bruised his mouth again. “Shut up.”

“But—“

“Not yet, Sherlock. Just…no.”

****

_Stamford had wanted to go out to lunch, catch up. Harry urged John to go, his therapist urged him to go. So he went. Mike was responsible for John and Sherlock’s meeting. John could thank him for introducing him to the love of his life, but no one knew how John felt, so what was the point? You can’t have a love of a life when that love is dead, so what was the point? John could hate him for introducing him to his happiness, because that happiness was gone now. (Is it better to have loved and lost, or to never have loved at all?)_

_John went to lunch. Might as well. ‘Meet me outside work.’ Mike’s text read._

_John didn’t even think. He walked up to St. Bart’s, right over the exact spot where Sherlock’s blood poured out. And then he stopped, and turned, and saw it all happen again. Fall, inertia, gravity, force, blood, death, Sherlock, one last pulse._

_Mike found him sitting against the stone of the hospital, clutching at his leg. Eyes brimming with water but not spilling over. Lips parted in a silent plead: help me._

_Mike regretted ever finding a flat mate for Sherlock Holmes._

****

Sherlock had his legs wrapped around Johns hips, grinding, _loving._ John wanted… he wanted…

“Top drawer.”

Lube. Condoms. Perfect.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. And so are you.”

Roll on the rubber, try to be graceful about it. John was not graceful. He was frantic and desperate and he wanted Sherlock so much and Sherlock was right there and John tried not to be so happy about it because he was angry.

But he had to slow down. Can’t rush in, he might injure Sherlock. Have to be slow. This just infuriated John more, making it even harder to be cautious.

He grazed that bundle of nerves on his (slow) push inside. Sherlock’s hips bucked and John almost lost control. Slow strokes.

“My god, John. I can feel the anger.” Sherlock was sarcastic, but squirming with the small flutters of pleasure.

“I’m working up to it!”

“John.” John looked at him then, his stupid _loving_ eyes. His pale irises all of a sudden filled with fire. “Fuck me.”

John gave a wry smile. (Oh you’re a bad man.)

“No.”

“ _What_?”

“I’ve decided to be lazy.”

“Fine.” Sherlock forced John onto his back without disconnecting. He fixed a bruising kiss to John’s mouth and started grinding in torturous arcs. John was driven mad by it, and he was responding with equal passion.

But Sherlock realized something and stopped abruptly. “You’ve manipulated me.”

“Yup.” Wry smile.

“You deny me and I take over, do all the work.”

“Yup.”

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. “No.” Wry smile.

John maneuvered his torso up and pulled Sherlock down to kiss him, hard. “Who’s manipulative now?” He grabbed Sherlock by his hips and turned them back over, resuming the hard thrusts.

“I’ve always been manipula—tive!” John had hit his prostate, Sherlock dragged his fingernails down Johns back. John arched at the stinging.

“Are we both having angry sex now?” John asked, hitting that spot again and again. Sherlock’s knuckles were white where they gripped John’s shoulders.

“Oh just shut up and fu—“ Sherlock’s words were pushed back into his mouth by Johns frantic tongue. John could feel his own release building, he was so close and Sherlock might be too. He didn’t ask. Instead he took Sherlock’s cock in hand, stimulated both of his pleasure centers simultaneously. Sherlock cried out his pleasure and John followed immediately after.

****

_John had been fantasizing about Sherlock for a little under a month. He was walking home, thinking he might be crazy for thinking about his friend in this way, and realized he was in love. It shocked him, it really did, to just have sudden clarity. No one thing to act as a catalyst for John’s epiphany. A quick thought, and an even quicker acceptance. Of course he loved Sherlock. This was the pinnacle of obvious._

_Obvious. Shit. Sherlock could probably deduce it immediately. John entered the flat trying to be as casual as possible. Sherlock’s hawk eyes were on him, but he didn’t say anything. John picked up his computer and settled into his chair._

_“Who’s the lucky lady?”_

_John was startled, and then he comprehended what Sherlock has said. He had deduced that John was in love, just not with who._

****

John let go, pulled out. Hovered over a panting Sherlock, claimed his mouth in a passionate kiss. Settled to his side, one arm thrown across Sherlock’s torso: possessive. Sherlock wrapped an arm around John’s shoulders: possessive.

The afterglow of sex hung in the air for minutes, and their breathing normalized. John’s shoulders stiffened, and Sherlock recognized that he needed to talk.

“Okay, you’ve got questions.”

“Why.” John said flatly, like a statement.

“To save you.” John lifted his head and arched an eyebrow. “If I didn’t jump… three assassins were poised to kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade.” He paused. “Is it bad that I cared more about saving you?”

“No, but don’t tell the others that.” John stared at him for a second longer. “You could have told me that you weren’t dead.”

“I had to clear my name.”

“Three and a half months.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I could have helped.”

“I considered it. But I realized that we would have wasted time by shagging each other senseless.”

John let that sink in. “You knew I was in love with you.”

“Yes.”

“And you jumped anyway.”

“To save you.”

John nodded. “Right.”

“It still hurts you.”

“I’ve seen enough people I care about die, Sherlock.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.” John thought he needed to say something else. “I understand why you… did.”

Sherlock smiled brightly, but it faded into a hesitant half smile. “But you can’t forgive me.”

“Not yet. But I will. I know I will.” John dropped his eyes.

“I love you.” John lifted his gaze back to Sherlock’s eyes.

“That won’t make me forgive you faster.”

“I know. I just wanted to say it—I figure this was the ‘later’ that you were talking about earlier.”

“I think it is.”

“Good. I love you.”

 John smiled. “I loved you first.”

“Wrong.”

“Oh really?”

Sherlock twisted their bodies so that he hovered over John. He smiled a true, uninhibited grin. “Ever since you killed that cabbie.” He pressed a brief kiss to John’s lips.

“Oh. Two… _two_ _years?_ Sherlock _—“_

John’s lips were claimed once again by Sherlock’s. John was very glad that he’d covered them both with the sheet, because at that moment Mrs. Hudson burst into the room in her dressing gown and slippers. She swatted Sherlock across the head with a newspaper.

“Sherlock Holmes! You’re supposed to be bloody _dead!_ I do not want to be woken up in the middle of the night by a dead man’s orgasm, _do you hear me?_ ” She was shaking her newspaper threateningly at him, a stern look in her eyes.

Sherlock was deadpan, “Necrophilia?”

She took in her surroundings, Johns compromising position under Sherlock. Her eyes darted to the nightstand where the small bottle of lube had been thrown, and she blushed.

Mrs. Hudson seemed to realize she was invading their privacy and flew from the room. John couldn’t help it, he laughed. Sherlock looked absolutely scandalized. John only laughed harder. Sherlock settled back into the pillows. John seemed to calm down a bit, chuckling lightly as he curled up under Sherlock’s arm.

“Was I really that loud?”

John just laughed. 

**Author's Note:**

> as always, leave some thoughts!


End file.
